Closer up, most of the village’s inhabitants matched their dismal abodes. Even the ragged children appeared grim. Everyone was dressed in brown, gray, or black. The only color in evidence was the circle painted on everyone’s forehead; it was freshly brushed in blood. Even before Froan reached the village, its people began to cheer, and the cheering spread like windblown fire through a dry field. By the time he was riding down the street, a roar reverberated through it.
Froan gazed at the screaming mob, surprised by their enthusiasm. Everyone appeared caught up in frenzied acclamation. Glancing about, Froan sensed why. They believe their submission will keep them safe. Since no one could hide from his penetrating gaze, Froan saw that the most terrified shouted his praises the loudest.
The column halted when Froan reached the center of the village, which was an unpaved square of modest dimensions. There, the crowd was most tightly packed. A group of men, somewhat better dressed than most, stood at the forefront of the crowd. Several black-robed priests flanked them. When Froan reined in his horse, the priests bowed and the men knelt in the slushy mud.
“Oh, Great and Dread Lord,” called out the foremost kneeling man, “we are most honored by your visit. Your humble and loyal subjects pray to present you gifts in thanks for the grace you’ve shown us.”
“You may rise and do this,” said Froan.
The men rose and advanced, bowing after each step. The man who had spoken held something bundled in black cloth. He pulled the cloth away to reveal a goblet wrought from solid gold. He handed it to Froan with many bows. Froan examined it. The work was crudely executed, but the goblet was heavy. “All have paid to have this made, my lord.”
“It pleases me,” said Froan.
The man looked greatly relieved. “And we have sent seventeen sons for your Iron Guard, your lordship. And seven cows, and thirteen sheep, and fifty fowls for your feast. And we have pledged half again this harvest’s tithe.”
“All this is good,” replied Froan.
The man bowed and made a gesture. Then the crowd behind him parted and a young man and an even younger woman were brought forth. Their lips had been stitched shut and their arms were tightly bound behind their backs. Both were shoeless and wore thin tunics that provided scant protection against the frigid weather. “This pair offended your laws, my lord. Will you render justice?”
Stregg had coached Froan on what to say. “Aye. I will give them death. Bring out the block, so all may see the fate of those who transgress against my laws.”
As Froan dismounted, a wooden block was brought forward, and the young man was forced to kneel and place his head upon it. Froan drew his broadsword and strode up to the kneeling man, who was shivering from either the cold or fear or both. Froan had never used such a heavy blade before, and he felt awkward as he gripped the huge sword with both hands to raise it high above his head.
The execution proved a clumsy business. Froan’s first blow missed the neck entirely, striking the man just below the shoulders. The wound was grievous, but not immediately fatal. Neither was the second one, but at least it struck the unfortunate man’s neck. A third blow finished him, but didn’t sever his head; an additional stroke was required for that.
After the bloody corpse was dragged away, they brought forth the young woman. She was trembling violently, and Froan made the error of glancing into her eyes. Immediately, he sensed her despair and understood that neither she nor the young man had done anything to deserve their fates. The law was only a pretext to deliver them as sacrifices to a ruthless lord and his bloody god.
At that instant, Froan was himself and not Lord Bahl. He was about to show the woman mercy until he glanced about. The rabid faces gazing back at him betrayed the general sentiment: all the folk with blood-painted foreheads were eager to see him kill. Froan readily saw that they regarded the execution as an entertaining spectacle, one of the few diversions from a drab and hard life.
Forced to kneel, the woman’s face was hidden from him, but her entire body shook. Froan pitied her, but he felt that he must meet expectations. The only mercy he could afford to show was to slay her quickly. He swung his broadsword and succeeded. When the crowd roared its approval, Froan’s merciful impulse seemed foolhardy. A lord must be stern, he thought, for his subjects require an iron hand. The headless body was dragged away. The dark thing within Froan exulted, and strengthened by the two deaths, it suppressed the vestiges of regret. When Froan mounted his horse, he was Lord Bahl again. He smiled coldly as he rode to the next village.
* * *
On Froan’s journey to the Iron Palace, the visit to the first village proved the pattern for all subsequent stops. The settlements varied from tiny hamlets to good-sized towns, but everywhere he went all the inhabitants turned out. The value of the gifts also varied, as did the number of unfortunates brought forth for “justice.” Practice made Froan more adept with the broadsword. After his first executions, he grew more hardened, and he was tempted to show mercy only once again. That was in a village that brought out an entire family for beheading—mother, father, and their five children. In the end, they perished like all the others.
The stops en route to the Iron Palace slowed Froan’s advance, but it gave him a feel for the domain that he was to rule. His subjects seemed fittingly subservient, but otherwise hardened and brutal. Judging from the Iron Guard, they made excellent soldiers. They were also adept at displaying loyalty. When Froan passed before the cheering throngs, it was impossible not to feel exalted and powerful. The regiment took a route that passed through most of Bahland, and Froan deduced that someone had taken pains to ensure that the march was a triumphal one. He suspected that person was the Most Holy Gorm.
Thirteen days after Froan crossed the border, he caught his first glimpse of the Iron Palace. Nothing in his travels prepared him for the sight. At first, he couldn’t believe that the structure was man-made; it simply looked too big. It stood above a town in splendid isolation on a bluff with the sky as its only backdrop. Before Froan could get a closer view, he had to pass through the town. His greeting there was the most lavish and enthusiastic one on his entire march. Black banners hung from all the buildings, the crowd was immense, the gifts were extravagant, and thirteen people were brought forth to die. Froan endured the pomp and show impatiently, solely concerned with reaching the palace quickly.
When the ceremonies were over at last, Froan rode to his new home. The closer he got to it, the more its size impressed him. If it hadn’t been so symmetrical, he might have believed it was a hite formed from black, oiled iron. Its basic form was that of a huge square enclosed by walls that slanted inward as they rose to the height of more than ten men. There were flat-topped, square-sided towers at each corner. A fifth tower rose from near the middle of the rear wall. It was different from the others in that it was much higher, lacked windows, and its top tapered inward to form a pyramid with its tip sliced off. The flat portion appeared to be a small deck. The other towers had crenellations on their tops, as did the outer walls. This feature gave them a spiky look, since each crenellation was capped with a steep-sided pyramid.
Froan could see the upper stories of a huge building rising from within the walls. The only other feature in view was the gate house that projected from the front of the palace. It was also gigantically proportioned, rising nearly as high as the walls behind it. An iron gate filled its im mense, pointed archway. As the column rode toward it, ten horse men abreast, the gate slowly rose into the arch, revealing a black, gaping hole.
Gazing upon the Iron Palace, Froan was amazed that such an edifice belonged to a single man. He was even more amazed to be that man. The mere idea of it thrilled and awed him. It seemed a grandiose fantasy, a dream from which he might awake and find himself in the fens again. How can such a thing be happening to me? he wondered. It seemed both wonderful and unsettling at once.
The column, still riding ten abreast, passed through the gate into a spacious and frigid courtyard. A massive rectang
ular building projected into the courtyard, taking up much of its space. The building’s upper story was pierced by high, thin windows capped with pointed arches, and it was crowned by a steeply pitched slate roof. Froan assumed the structure was the actual palace. Like the towers and the exterior of the stronghold’s walls, it was covered with iron plates. All the other structures flanking the courtyard were built with the same stone that paved it—black basalt. The effect was gloomy but impressive.
Men dressed in black poured out of the palace and rushed over to him. Froan assumed they were servants, and their timid behavior confirmed his conclusion. As one got on all fours to become a human stepping stool, the others bowed low. “O most powerful master,” said one, “to fulfill your every wish is our sole desire. We are yours to command.”
Then a second spoke. “The Most Holy Gorm awaits you.”
It seemed to Froan that the second man contradicted the first, but he replied to him by commanding to be taken to the Most Holy One.
The interior of the palace was as overwhelming as its exterior. Froan passed through a succession of large, shadowy chambers, moving so rapidly that his most vivid impression—other than their darkness—was their smell. The chilly air had a faint but pervasive odor. At first, Froan couldn’t place it. Then he recalled the stale scent of the desiccated corpse he had found atop Twin Hite. If folk had built tombs in the Grey Fens, Froan imagined they would have smelled like the somber rooms—ancient, with a whiff of death.
Entering the great hall felt like standing outdoors again, for the vast room exceeded all Froan’s conceptions of what a room could be. It seemed far too large for human needs. The black columns appeared like trees to him, especially where they curved at their tops to form the pointed arches of the ceiling. The greenish glass in the high windows dimmed the light and tinted it to an underwater hue. Most striking of all was the hall’s emptiness, the way it swallowed sound and made him feel minute.
At the far end of the room was a raised platform, and on it were two chairs. One was ornate and empty. The other was simple and a man sat in it. When he rose from his seat, the servants retreated, leaving Froan and the man alone. Froan strode toward him. At first, the other man was just a tiny figure dwarfed by the im mense proportions of the vacant hall. But eventually, Froan could see him better. He had a full black beard and wore the ebony robes of a priest. However, the simple iron pendant of the Devourer was suspended from an elaborate gold chain. The man bowed, and called to Froan. “Lord Bahl, your chair has long stood empty. Come sit in it while we talk.”
Froan advanced closer. When he was near enough to clearly view the man’s deeply tanned face, he had two contradictory impressions: The man looked youthful, seemingly Froan’s elder by just a dozen winters. At the same time, his gray eyes appeared ancient. The man bowed. “Your lordship, I am the Most Holy Gorm, highest in the order that serves your cause. Long have I awaited this meeting.”
Froan gazed into Gorm’s eyes and discovered that he was unable to penetrate beneath their surface. He discerned only what any keen observer might see: that Gorm was unafraid of him and that he exuded an air of triumph.
FIFTY
FROAN CLIMBED the short flight of stairs leading to the platform. He was still in his armor, which was stained with the blood of the thirteen he had executed. Gorm grinned at the sight of him. “Every bit a lord,” he said. “It is as if you had grown up within these walls.” He paused to appraise him. “You possess your father’s gaze but your mother’s coloring.”
“You knew her?” asked Froan.
“Of course. I was there when she betrayed your father. Where did she hide you all this time?”
“The Grey Fens.”
“That dismal bog?” said Gorm. “Your arrival is proof of your greatness. A lesser man would have never escaped.”
“You said she betrayed my father. Did she slay him?”
“She cut out his heart,” said the Most Holy One, shaking his head. “Such a traitorous way to repay his devotion.”
Froan gazed into Gorm’s eyes again, but they remained impervious to his scrutiny. “Why?”
“I believe that she thought she could work magic with it. She had another lover—”
“I know,” said Froan. “Honus. She claimed he was my father and said he was a goatherd. That was also a lie. My father’s spirit revealed that Honus was a Sarf.”
Gorm’s eyes widened, as if he were surprised. “You were visited by your father’s ghost?”
“Yes. He hinted at my heritage, but only that.”
“Then what happened? Did your mother release you?”
“No,” said Froan. “We fought.”
“I’m hardly surprised.”
“And I killed her.”
Gorm raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I cut her throat.”
“The memory seems to pain you.”
“Somewhat. It was an accident. She was grabbing for my dagger and fell onto my blade.”
“Well, don’t blame yourself. There’s such a thing as fate, and your mother’s treachery sealed hers. Before you mourn her, think upon this: your father’s death was no accident.”
“Still,” said Froan, “she was the only parent I knew.”
“Your father had a premonition of his end and charged me with your care.” Gorm bowed his head in a gesture of humility. “A charge I failed. Your mother outwitted me by fleeing before you were born. But by your grace, I’ll redeem myself and teach you all you need to know.”
“I’d appreciate that,” said Froan. “This life is new to me.”
Gorm bowed again. “I thank you for your trust, my lord. I believe you’ll master your role quicker than you suppose. After all, you were born to rule.”
“That’s what my father said.”
Gorm smiled. “Never doubt his wisdom.”
Froan and Gorm continued talking for quite a while, but their conversation shifted to a mundane discussion of palace life. Froan had the distinct impression that Gorm had learned all he wanted to know at the very onset and that he had been able to discern things left unsaid. What ever the Most Holy One discovered apparently pleased him, for he seemed to be struggling to hide his satisfaction under a guise of formality. Eventually, the palace chamberlain appeared and Gorm left Froan in the servant’s care.
When Froan arrived at his private apartments, he had the eerie sensation that he had been there before. Everything looked vaguely familiar, although he had never seen anything like the elegant rooms in his life. Their walls and high ceilings were paneled in a wood so dark that it was nearly black. The ceilings were elaborately carved, while tapestries depicting battle scenes hung on the walls. One showed soldiers climbing a mound of corpses to surmount a battlement. The figures in the foreground stood knee-deep in blood. It hung in the oversized room where servants stripped off Froan’s armor and dressed him in dark red velvet.
In a private dining room, other servants brought out wine and meat. After they piled a table with more than five could eat or drink, Froan sent them away. He grabbed a brimming wine goblet and a haunch of rare meat and then wandered about. He was both exuberant and uneasy. Everything about his situation felt perfectly right and disturbingly wrong. The latter feeling wasn’t as strong as the former, but it was persistent, and he couldn’t dismiss it. He felt like someone who would be at perfect ease if it weren’t for a grain of sand beneath an eyelid. He had achieved his destiny and become a great lord. He possessed powers beyond the dreams of ordinary men. Nevertheless, it was spoiled by one small thing—the remnants of a conscience that he couldn’t banish.
Rage boiled up within him. This is Mam’s fault! he thought. She’s ruining this for me! He was certain that his weaknesses arose from her, and the idea infuriated him. But what can I do? I’ve already cut her throat. Ironically, it seemed that his only obstacle to contentment was himself. With mounting fury, he rang for a servant and a man hurried in. “What do you wish, my lord?”
; Froan held out the haunch of meat. “Come and look at this!” When the man rushed over, Froan said, “It’s overdone. I want it like this.” He plunged his dagger into the servant’s bowels. “Bloody.”
The servant screamed in agony as Froan twisted the blade, feeling a rush of excitement that overwhelmed his ambivalence. After the man fell writhing to the floor and expired, Froan felt both graced by the Devourer and as one with all the lords who had preceded him. That mood persisted throughout the rest of his meal, which he ate in the presence of the servant’s corpse. Afterward, he retired to his bedchamber, where a huge window overlooked the bay and the sea beyond. Froan had never seen the ocean before, and he gazed at it for a long while. The setting sun was disappearing into the water, coloring it bloodred. It was a shade that perfectly fit his mood.
Stregg followed the Most Holy Gorm up the winding stairs of the divining tower in a state of anticipation. When he entered the holy chamber, he was surprised by its simplicity. It was a cubic room built of black stone with an iron door engraved with runes. A very young boy, gagged and bound hand and foot, lay shivering on the floor. He regarded Stregg and the Most Holy One with terrified eyes. A single oil lamp illuminated the room. It sat on a massive stone block that served as a table and was the room’s sole furnishing. There were a number of items on the table, but Stregg’s gaze was immediately drawn to the gleaming silver chain—the emblem of the More Holy One.
“Give me your pendant,” said Gorm.
Stregg removed the leather cord that suspended the iron circle that symbolized the Devourer. The rusty pendant was a family heirloom, and precious to him. Gorm took it and smiled. “I remember presenting this same pendant to your great-grandfather when he was younger than you are now.” He took a bronze dagger from his robe and cut the cord away. Then walking over to the table, he attached the pendant to the silver chain using an iron clasp. “Kneel.”
The Iron Palace Page 34